The flooded tears and burning hearts asking the sky for relief is America.
The soaring branches searching for signs of souls that hide behind the heat for the comfort they lack is America.
The sliced air of desperation that rings through images circulating in the wand of disbelief at callous men watching from afar is America.
The army of victims in unlit caves, digging for morsels in the wetness of dust using only whispers as guiding light is America.
The morning rays that hit the rust with beads of sweat from all that was and is to come is America.
The pain of birth and existence in a country that refuses to answer its name when the roll call demands assurance of presence is America.
The scowling of disasters that strike for attention and yet receive blinding eyes through fractured maze that path the pillars of power — magnifying suffering for the greed of negligence is America.
Broken lines, shabby bonds and the communication of Black and White mixed with the hues of nations that combine to breed the beautiful renderings of what spirited minds can muster is America.
The “island surrounded by water, big water, ocean water” is Puerto Rico.
And we are Americans.